


Blue Stained Blades

by effulgentTroubadour (Azaisya)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-typical language, F/M, First Meetings, No character deaths (despite the title), Some minor violence, and Mindfang being useless because welp her future is finally catching up to her, featuring the Summoner trying to hire useful people for his rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 09:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaisya/pseuds/effulgentTroubadour
Summary: In a tavern in a town in the middle of nowhere, the Summoner finds the gamblignant he's been searching for.





	Blue Stained Blades

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this literally last year and I have no idea why I didn't post it. It's definitely not my headcanon, but I thought it was an interesting scenario. 
> 
> In this case, the Summoner is already the leader of his underground rebellion and is purposefully seeking out Mindfang, who's been hanging out in a random town in the middle of nowhere. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Homestuck or any of the affiliated characters or locations.

You've come into the tavern with your wings pressed flat to your back and your hood drawn up. Your horns are impossible to keep hidden, but there are enough trolls with similarly shaped horns that hopefully nobody will know who you are. Your eyes scan the tavern, your fingers on the pommel of your dagger.

It's a tavern in the worst kind of city, the sort where the worst scum of Alternia gathers: Highbloods who'd committed such heinous crimes that even they are exiled from society, lowbloods on the run, traitors and cultists. It's a melting pot for criminals and the bottommost slime of society.

Which is saying something, because Alternia is a goddamn awful place to live in.

But rumor said she'd be here, and so here you are. You move through the tavern gracefully, shifting around servers and raucous customers and drunk idiots with ease, your eyes constantly moving. You don't know what she looks like, but your source had assured you that you'd know her when you saw her.

You move to the edge of he room, where you can examine the entire tavern. It smells awful, like piss and bodies and beer. There's a highblood couple going at it right there on the table, which is _revolting_ , and you see at least three separate pickpockets casting their luck with the crowd.

Your attention is rather abruptly averted when a pair of breasts walks past and smiles at you and

Fuck.

Your eyes snap up to her face instead and _wow_. Your mind is still lagging several eons behind and you aren't able to say anything comprehensive because she is the most gorgeous troll you've ever seen in your entire life. Her skin is riddled with bone-pale scars and her muscles are hard beneath her fluttery skirt and tight black pants. She has a blueblood's face: long-lashed eyes, arched brows, delicate bones. But her smile is barbed with two sharp fangs and her eyes are shrewd. Her voice is warm and sultry, and you think you left your jaw somewhere by your feet. "Well aren't you pretty!"

You snap back to your senses and hastily wave her off. "I'm not here for a cheap bucket."

Her smile vanishes and she snaps, "Wow, _rude! _Do you insult everybody who just wants to have a friendly conversation?!"__

You feel a pang of guilt that you'd automatically assumed she was propositioning you, but what were you supposed to think? She's even dressed like a hooker, with her stupid lacy pirate get up. Your thoughts come to a screeching halt at that, because the only lace she's wearing are on her legs, and most of it is over solid cloth. The only thing _pirate_ about her is the admittedly sea-troll cut of her clothes and the eye patch that stretches over her left eye.

You source had assured you that you'd know her when you saw her.

Well. Good to know that he hadn't been lying, even if you had been a little slow on the uptake.

There are multiple ways to go about this, but you elect to go for the most efficient one. It's less private and requires less acting (and luck). The fact that you won't be bringing her somewhere private means that there's less chance of her ripping your guts out.

In one abrupt motion, you grab her arm, whirl her around, and slam her back against the wall. She snarls and tries valiantly to break free, but you've taken her by surprise and are able to whip out your dagger before she does.

Roughly, you push the blade against her neck. She chokes and calls you all sorts of nasty things, and the blade slices easily through her skin. You gentle your grip, because you don't want to kill her. Voice low and dangerous, you snarl, "Marquise Spinneret Mindfang."

_That_ shuts her up, if only because she's too indignant to speak. After a couple seconds, she splutters, "What the _fuck_! Nobody uses my old title anymore! Who are you?!"

Nobody will come to her aid, not in a place like this. If you kill her, chances are that the others will just loot her body. These types of cities are viciously cutthroat. Eagerly, you say, "But you _are_ her, aren't you? The gamblignant?"

Her eye narrows as she struggles to figure out what you want. "She's dead," she says flatly, "She ceased to exist long before you dragged your miserable ass from the Brooding Caverns."

It _is_ her, and you grin widely. "I have a proposition for you."

Her eyebrows shoot up and her lips curl into a sneer. "Great way to go about it." 

Patiently, you reply, "My organization could use your skills." After a second, you realize that sounds vague and add, "Both your psychic and naval ones."

She lets out a sharp laugh, her throat twitching around your dagger. "Oh, I'll show you my psychics!"

You'd been expecting her to use them earlier, and so you already have defenses prepared. She's so much sharper than what you're used to. Chucklevoodoos are subtle, meant to gently lull their victims with the sole purpose of inspiring fear. Her purpose is much more direct; she seeks to take control, and she doesn't care how she gets it.

But you'd built up your mental defenses against Subjugglator wrath, and you're able to withstand her attack with—well, not with ease. But you're able to do it, and that's what matters.

Her powers snake into your mind and rapidly start encircling it. You recognize that she's spinning a web with you at the center, but your walls are hard to grab onto. Her power slips away, and she growls and tries again, fastening new strands until her web is secure. With deadly speed, she _pulls_ , her threads snapping shut around your walls and squeezing.

It hurts like hell, but you push back with as much mental capacity as you have, building your walls thicker in the brief reprieve that brings you. She recovers admirably quickly, striking your mind again and again with more ferocity each time. You merely endure, blocking and trapping and evading her strikes.

Sweat beads your skin as you strain, and she tenses and grits her teeth. You haven't had to try so hard to protect your mind since you were a wiggler, and her strength seems as limitless as the ocean. The din of the tavern seems to have fallen under a veil, slowly growing more and more muted until there is nothing in the world but you, her, and the strain of her powers against your mind.

In the back of your pan, Pyralspite whispers, unsure what's happening. You shut her down as quickly as you can, but the Marquise has heard. Her eye widens and her control slips under her shock.

Unbeknownst to you, your lips draw back into a snarl-smile. You lash out with your own powers. They're helpless to control her, because she's a troll, but it does serve to shatter her control completely. The shards of her power fall away from your mind, unravelling even more rapidly than she'd spun them.

The volume of the inn returns with the cacophonous crash of voices raised high and glass on wood and chairs screeching on floor. You realize that you're uncomfortably hot and that your head is pounding and your muscles are trembling. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling as though she'd spent an eternity underwater.

Breathlessly, she tilts her head so that her sweat-streaked hair falls from her face. Cerulean eye huge, she gasps, " _You're the Summoner."_

Names are sacred to trolls. Hatchnames are often considered taboo, and regularly will only be known by extremely close quadrant mates. Official Ascension titles, given by the Crown or another superior, are used in place of hatchnames. Self-given titles are similarly used, but they're much more personal.

Your self-given title hasn't been public for very long. An ex-gamblignant living at the edges of society shouldn't know it. Your eyes narrow as you examine her face, trying to figure out her motives. But there's nothing in her face but wide-eyed awe.

Well. That's weird.

"You've heard of me?"

Her voice is shrill, her expression a mixture of panic, shock, and helplessness. "Unfortunately."

Curiously, you ask, "How?"

She evades the question. "Everybody heard how some shitblood mutant flipped off the Grand Highblood and took off with two thousand cavalreapers! _Fucking_ mutants, am I right?!" Her eyes flash to your shoulders, where your wings would have been if you hadn't covered them. You're a little nonplussed at her answer; it isn't quite the truth. You hadn't flipped off the Grand Highblood, although you had set his tent on fire. She's acting bizarre and impulsive and theatrical.

You take control of the conversation again, steering it back towards your point. As if you hadn't just had an intense mental battle, you say, "We can trade your services for money, food, and lodging. You'll have a contract, and you'll remain until the end of your contract."

She lets out a laugh somewhere between breathless and panicked. "You're offering _me_ a contract?! To— to what? Sail ships? Enslave your enemies?" Her voice is a little crazed, and she shudders and brings a hand up to shove her hair out of her face. You realize that the arm holding her in place has fallen slack, and you lamely bring the dagger back up to the angry blue line that's already sending rivulets of blood past her collarbones.

"Kind of," you admit, "A little more complicated, but that's the gist of it. It's for a good cause—"

She cuts you off. "For a good cause! You want to flip the _hemospectrum_! You don't care about equality—you only say you do." She's leaning forwards, slowly encroaching into your personal space. "You have no idea what you're doing! You have no idea what I can do. What I _will_ do." Her words send a rush of heat through you, something you've never felt before. Beneath your cloak, your wings throb, but you keep them limp and cool against your skin.

You push the dagger harder against her neck, and fresh blood gushes around the metal. She gives, her back hitting the wall with a thump. "You're talking nonsense," you snap, "I'm fighting to bring peace. The Sufferer was right about a lot of things; he just went about them wrong. I'm here to finish what he started." Something crosses her face, disbelief or anger. Maybe both. You can't tell. You've always been better with beasts. "We'd like to use your skills to wreck havoc on the Imperial Navy. And, eventually, to lock down oversea shipments."

There's something strange on her face, something desperate. "I haven't been on a ship in decades. Maybe even centuries. I left the sea before you'd even hatched." 

You'd known that, and you refuse to let it dissuade you. "I'm told it's hard to forget a skill like that."

She's quiet, but she's thinking, and so you let her be. Your muscles are steadier now. Voice low, she says, "You can release me. I won't run—or attack you. I'll sign your damned contract."

Startled, you protest, "But you haven't even read it!"

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. It's simply bitter and sad. "It doesn't matter. I'll do whatever you want, even if it'll kill me."

Your arm falls slack, the cerulean-streaked dagger coming to rest at your side. "That seems a little extreme." But you'll trust her anyways, because you need her and she's willing to sign your contract. 

Her eye finds yours, and you see a breathtaking intensity glowing beneath it. Quiet and fierce, she hisses, "My title is Spinneret Mindfang. I _will_ aid you, and I _will_ die for it. You better fucking pay me well."

You're taken aback by her words, but you nonetheless hold out your hand. "The Summoner, but you already knew that. Welcome to the rebellion."


End file.
